The Melody Lingers On (16 page)

One hundred million dollars as a backup. For some reason that story kept rolling around in Eleanor’s mind.

The place where Parker Bennett met her for lunch was Neary’s on Fifty-Seventh Street. Actually, she had been there before, a half dozen times at least. You never knew who you’d see
there at night—high-ranking clergy, congressmen, business leaders, and so on. But lunch was quieter.

That was when Parker made his offer. “Eleanor, I’m going to leave the office and open my own place,” he said. “I want you to come work for me.”

The salary he had offered was more than generous. “And you’ll be very pleased with your Christmas bonus,” he had promised.

She would have leaped to say yes immediately, but then, when he told her the kind of investment firm he was planning, she was absolutely sure that he was not only a wonderful businessman but
also a philanthropist.

“Eleanor,” he had said, “we all know that people with real money are sophisticated, and when they do their financial planning they always have stocks and bonds in their
portfolio.”

Eleanor remembered how distinguished Parker Bennett had looked, and how he had looked her squarely in the eye as he sipped a glass of chardonnay.

“Eleanor,” he said, “I came from nothing. My father was a mail carrier. My mother was a sales clerk at Abraham and Straus. It has been on my mind for years to help ordinary
middle-class and lower-middle-class people like them, who are scrupulously putting aside a little money every month, to have a chance to get a decent return, while avoiding overly risky
investments.”

Then he outlined his plan, Eleanor thought bitterly. He would create a cozy, homelike atmosphere because, as he put it, “The little folks are easily intimidated, and we’ll reach them
by subscribing to a lot of local newspapers and writing to congratulate people who were given an award or celebrated an anniversary.”

They called me the “tea and cookies lady,” Eleanor remembered with hot shame. I fell for his plans hook, line, and sinker, and looked up to Parker Bennett as if he was the savior of
mankind.

And now I may go to prison for my stupidity.

But there was something, there was something, there was something . . .

A week later, after another seven sleepless nights struggling to recapture something long forgotten, as the first early morning lights filtered into the bedroom, Eleanor was
suddenly aware that she was coming into the memory.

Her hand suddenly went up to her forehead. That’s it, she thought. We bumped heads really hard. He had dropped something and I helped him pick it up. What was it? It was right after he
opened the investment firm.

She finally fell into an uneasy sleep and began to dream—fragments that came and went. She was in the office. We bumped heads. He was nervous.

With that, Eleanor’s memory faded. She had heard somewhere that if you write a dream down, it will help you to remember it clearly. And if you put your mind on a search-and-retrieve
pattern, you may find what you’re looking for.

Suddenly hopeful, Eleanor got out of bed quietly so as not to awaken Frank, slipped on her robe, and went out to the kitchen.

She got the pad that she used to jot her grocery list and took a pen from the drawer.

Sitting at the kitchen table, she began to write. “Mr. Bennett and I bumped heads . . . It was just after I started working for him.” She hesitated. “He dropped something
because he had just come in. It was very cold out. He said his fingers were stiff. He was terribly nervous.”

There was nothing more that she could bring back yet.

S
ylvie de la Marco was in an increasingly bad mood. She knew she had to call Parker for more money soon. Two million more, just for the
decorating!

And she had gone through a lot of money, a whole lot of money, last year. She’d bought a lot of clothes, which she absolutely needed because she was out socially so much.

And she had gone to Brazil last year. The surgery there was superb. She knew she didn’t look more than thirty, which was just right for someone who was actually forty-six.

What was the matter with Parker? He had stolen five billion dollars. Why was he being so miserly?

She realized she had begun to worry. Was it possible that after accumulating all that money, Parker had lost some or most of it?

And what happened if they ever
caught
him? It would be just like him to turn her in.

These were Sylvie’s troubled thoughts as, in a new Chanel suit, her Russian sable coat slung over her arms, she was almost ready to leave to have lunch with an A-list friend, Pamela
Winslow, at Le Cirque.

Like her, Pamela had come from immigrant parents, hardworking, good people—Sylvie’s Italian, hers Polish. Her parents named her Pansy because her mother loved
Gone with the
Wind,
and she read that Scarlett’s name was originally going to be Pansy. They giggled together about how they had begun planning to climb the social ladder to find a rich husband. They
were both blessed with good looks. Pamela got her blond hair and blue eyes from her Polish ancestry. Sylvie helped hers along by dying her hair blond. It’s always looked good with my brown
eyes, Sylvie mused. Pamela and I were also both divorced twice.

Then Pansy landed a rich guy the year I married Eduardo, Sylvie thought. Now she has loads of money and I have to eke out a living begging droppings from Parker. But at least I have a title, and
that really impresses people, most of the time.

It’s time to look around, she thought.

As she headed for the front door, Robert told her that Ms. Harper was in the drawing room. She had not specifically asked to see the countess.

She knows enough not to bother me, Sylvie thought, but decided that anyhow she would see what Harper was up to.

Glady had banished the heavy draperies and almost all of the furniture. “I know an upscale store where they sell secondhand household furniture and tchotchkes and get pretty decent prices
for them,” she had told Sylvie.

Now the drawing room was bare but painted in a soft vanilla shade that was a stark contrast to the harsh gold color that had been formerly there. Glady Harper was standing behind the painter as
he began to paint the wainscoting.

“Ms. Harper,” Sylvie said, her tone formal.

Glady turned. “Oh, good morning, Countess, or is it good afternoon?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, I guess either will do. It’s about thirty seconds before
noon.”

As usual Sylvie was not sure if there was an underlying note of contempt in Harper’s pleasant-enough greeting. She decided to ignore it. In the past month she had begun to realize that the
whole feeling of the apartment was changing. Elegant but inviting was the way Harper had promised her it was going to be.

“Oh, Countess, before you go out, may I have a word with you?” Glady asked.

She’s going to want more money, Sylvie thought, panicked. “Of course, Ms. Harper.”

Glady walked toward her, then said, “I think we should step outside.”

She must think that the painter can hear a bird pass wind, Sylvie thought as she stepped into the hallway.

Glady did not waste a minute. “The second installment is due next week,” she said.

“Next week!”

“Of course, Countess. The paintings from Sotheby’s; the salon furniture; the dining room table, chairs, sideboard, and chandelier; and the antique carpets throughout the house, as
well as the fabric for the window treatments, all of which you approved, will be delivered within the next two weeks.”

“Of course.” Sylvie tried to sound assured, then added, “I don’t think you gave me a schedule for the rest of the payments.”

“I believe our contract specifically states the steps at which payments are due.”

“Of course. You will have the check next week, Ms. Harper.”

Remembering to keep her head up, Sylvie exited the apartment. She knew Robert would be in front with the car to drive her to Le Cirque. There certainly was no way that she would climb out of a
cab in front of the doorman.

Pamela was already there. It was one of her little tricks to always be early for an appointment and make people feel as though they had kept her waiting.

Their date was for 12:30. It was just 12:20. “Hi, Pansy,” Sylvie said just loud enough for the maître d’ to hear.

“Hi, Sally.”

They both laughed.

Over a gin martini they exchanged gossip. Sylvie knew that Pamela thought she was in touch with Parker, although she had never admitted to her that she was.

“How’s Malcolm?” she asked.

“As rich as ever,” Pamela replied. “And in equal parts, as boring.”

Malcolm Winslow was a Wall Street investor, twenty-six years older than Pamela, his second wife. His shrewd tradings had made him a legend on Wall Street but his innate disdain for social events
was a big problem for Pamela, who loved to see her picture in the paper.

Now, with a sigh, she asked, “What’s new with you, Sylvie?”

“The latest is that I’m redoing the apartment. Glady Harper is the decorator. She’s a witch, but she is good.”

Pamela raised her eyebrows. “And expensive, very, very expensive. And that is one big apartment. Twelve rooms, isn’t it?”

Unfortunately, Sylvie remembered that Pamela was one of the few people who knew that she had received comparatively little from the de la Marco estate.

“Oh, I’m doing the whole thing. I might as well get it all over with. I guess I’ll have to cast around for a rich husband.”

“I think you should. Of course that means you’ll have to trade off your title.”

“Never. When I find that guy I won’t take his name.”

Over a salad and their second gin martini, Pamela turned serious. “Sylvie, I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to upset you, but ever since Parker
Bennett’s secretary was indicted, the FBI has begun a new round of questioning people who were close to him. And they’re telling people that there is a two-million-dollar reward for
information leading to his conviction.”

“Did they contact you?” Sylvie swallowed nervously.

“Yes.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“What would you expect? I said that yes, you and I are good friends. I said I do not believe that you and Parker were involved personally, that the fact you were seen at dinner alone with
Parker meant nothing. I said that you are a very good businesswoman, that the count had dementia, and that you had a large investment in Parker’s firm.”

She paused. “How’s that for a pal? But seriously, Sylvie, I think the interior decorating now might be a big mistake.” Pamela took the last sip of her martini. “You know
something you should consider? Barclay Cameron has always had an eye out for you. He told me so at La Grenouille last week. He said he’s called you a couple of times, but you’re always
busy.”

“Barclay Cameron! He’s older than Eduardo.”

“No he isn’t. He’s eighty-two, healthy, lonely, and a widower. Sylvie, my guess is that right now the Feds are going over your finances with a fine-tooth comb. If they can
prove that you’ve been receiving big bucks from Parker Bennett, you could get twenty years in prison. That’s what the FBI told me. I have a feeling they wanted me to pass that
information on to you.”

When the check came, they carefully split the bill.

T
he decorative pillows for Anne Bennett’s living room arrived one week before Thanksgiving.

In the past two weeks, Lane had not heard from Eric. I understand why he hasn’t called, she told herself. Eric must have been terribly upset about the picture in the gossip columns of the
two of them.

That was what Anne Bennett told her the minute she arrived in Montclair.

“Oh, Lane. Eric has been so distressed about that picture,” were her first words after she greeted Lane.

“Oh, he really shouldn’t have been,” Lane protested as she carried in a large plastic bag containing the pillows.

She took off her coat, dropped it on a chair in the foyer, and headed straight to the living room. One by one she took out the pillows and placed them on the couch and chairs, then stood back.
“Just what I wanted,” she told Anne. “It gives this room the oomph it needed.”